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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24370516">laugh when it sinks in (the regret, that is)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/miss_mon/pseuds/miss_mon'>miss_mon</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Xiaolin Showdown (Cartoon)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>And He Uses It For Academic Purposes Mostly, Competent Jack Spicer, Crossover, Gen, Jack Spicer As A TA, Jack Spicer Has Magic, Meta, i have a lot to say about fascist regimes and i'm using voldemort as an example, in theory, quarantine writing, technically a hogwarts AU, this is a four year old wip but quarantine be like that sometimes</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 00:20:48</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,592</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24370516</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/miss_mon/pseuds/miss_mon</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>In the eyes of all those involved in the Xiaolin-Heylin conflict Jack Spicer is weak, pathetic, prone to switching sides at the drop of a hat, and thoroughly unable to defend himself without the use of his machines. And that’s just the way he likes it. It’s a kind of comfortable mediocrity he’s worked hard to cultivate over two years, and it may not be perfect, but it's his.</p><p>His family, for all their dedication to tradition and high expectations, mostly leave him to his own devices so long as he continues to churn out academic achievements and not make too much of a fuss in high society without their say so. So for two years he keeps a tight lid on his other responsibilities, and enjoys the -relatively- stress-free global scavenger hunt against people he quietly considers his friends.</p><p>And, despite the risks, he manages to keep it all a secret. Jack Spicer gets to keep his slice of average, expectation-less life, and they get a kid that represents more comic relief than an actual threat. Life is good. Things are nice. </p><p>And then everything gets shot to hell by the start of the Second British Wizarding Civil War.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Jack Spicer &amp; Harry Potter, Jack Spicer &amp; Minerva McGonogall, Jack Spicer &amp; Sirius Black, Jack Spicer &amp; Wuya</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>64</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>laugh when it sinks in (the regret, that is)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Translator's note:<strike>keikaku means plan</strike> nain is Welsh for grandmother. I wanted to link the story back to Britain but I'm very tired of how English all the major characters are, and Wales doesn't have a single confirmed canon character outside of Quiddich players, so. Here we are.<br/>Outside of using the occasional Welsh word for titles and places - which I'll list in the begging and end notes - I probably wont bother writing any dialogue fully in Welsh, I don't want anyone having to scroll up and down just ot understand what's going on in a scene.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>In the eyes of all those involved in the Xiaolin-Heylin conflict Jack Spicer is weak, pathetic, prone to switching sides at the drop of a hat, and thoroughly unable to defend himself without the use of his machines. And that’s just the way he likes it. It’s a kind of comfortable mediocrity he’s not used to, and it’s <em>safe</em>.</p><p>A constant in the life of Jack Spicer is his want for normalcy. Being raised in a household part magical and part mundane makes for a certain variety of life – having both sides of that household represent powerful political parties in their respective worlds does very little to help the situation. He’s raised on a steady diet of magical tutors and Mundane teachers, advancing in startling leaps and bounds that lead to frightening words like <em>prodigy</em>, <em>genius</em> and <em>the-next-Merlin</em> being thrown around. To his family, it’s a bragging point and a demonstration of power and prestige. To him, it’s fucking terrifying: it reveals a brand-new level of pressure and expectations he isn’t even vaguely willing to deal with. Scrutiny from both family and strangers is inevitable and will eventually become inescapable as he’s pushed higher and higher onto the pedestal of <em>‘a uniquely gifted young wizard’</em>.</p><p>Solution? Keep himself occupied with completing both levels of schooling and getting PhDs in mechanical engineering and quantum physics before reaching his majority, <em>leaving</em>, completing masteries in Transfiguration and Runes, and setting up life far, <em>far</em> away from his family to live in relative peace.</p><p>Of course, he fails to factor in the increased learning curve once he hits his teens, and by the time he reaches 14 he’s left with two PhDs and a masters in biochemistry, and the paperwork to kick-start his Runes mastery, with three years left before he can skip town without legal consequence. It has him floundering, darting between projects and plans as he desperately tries to find something to occupy the next few years – and <em>damn</em> if Wizarding law isn’t a pain in the ass for only permitting a single mastery undertaking at a time. Granted, not many wizards ever even managed to possess more than a single mastery by the end of their life, let alone earning them simultaneously, but <em>still</em>.</p><p>Thankfully, his situation is remedied easily enough by the appearance of a puzzle box. With the release of Wuya that catalysed the Shen Gong Wu hunt, he has plenty to occupy his time. Opening up as a spineless evil-wannabe overly-reliant on his technology sets the tone for almost two whole years, and it lets Jack to form relationships he’s not <em>had</em> before (hello, wunderkind isolationist childhood), while interacting on a semi-regular basis with kids his own age.</p><p>It’s <em>nice</em>. And even if they <em>did</em> kinda act like dicks sometimes, he himself isn’t exactly a shining example of dickless-behaviour.</p><p>Of course, when Chase Young shows up, things become just the tiniest bit harder. After all, how can you <em>not </em>fawn over the equivalent of <em>Merlin</em> when he’s stood right in front of you?  He exists as a similar symbol to that of which Merlin presents in Britain, if far darker, though clearly just as talented. Tamping down on his magic and anything he might accidentally let slip is therefore far harder than with the monks (ignorant), or Wuya (indifferent).</p><p>Despite everything he manages to keep it all a secret. Jack Spicer gets to keep his slice of average, expectation-less life and they get a kid that represents more comic relief than an actual threat. Life is <em>good</em>. Things are <em>nice</em>.</p><p>And then everything gets shot to hell by the start of the Second British Wizarding Civil War.</p><p>His nain, damn her meddling soul, is an old friend (and the term is used <em>loosely</em>) of Albus Dumbledore’s, having completed their Transfiguration masteries together under the same mentor. Which means of course, <em>of course</em>, that a phoenix bursts onto the scene just as the usual crew gather to search for the newest Wu.</p><p>Lovely.</p><p>Jack eyes it for a scant second as it perches serenely in the branches of a bare tree not five feet away, before turning on his heel and making his way back towards his plane, consequences be damned. By the awed noises issuing forth from the monks and the indignant shrieks of Wuya, they’ve certainly noticed it, and if <em>Wuya</em> is here then <em>Chase</em> is too, if only to supervise the renegade witch, which means <em>he</em> is fucked if any of this goes –</p><p>His thoughts are brought to a screeching halt as a beautiful but unmistakably smug melody calls from behind him, accompanied by the <em>fwoosh</em> of large wings. A gentle breeze is the only warning before <em>something</em> takes perch on his shoulder. Freezing, Jack takes a moment to appreciate the calm before the shit-storm of his double-life crashing down around his ears, trying desperately to ignore the heady silence that follows.</p><p>It’s the snarky croon that crawls over his shoulder that forces him into action. Scowling, he forcefully shrugs the ill-mannered phoenix (though, as immortal magical creatures, he doubts they have to confine themselves to such arbitrary things as <em>manners</em>) off his shoulder, and keeps on walking. With single minded determination, he pointedly ignores the horrified exclamations behind him, though takes a vindictive kind of satisfaction in the indignant squawk of the phoenix.</p><p>The second round of heavy wingbeats has him walking faster, and for a brief moment hope blooms in his stomach as he faces the plane a handful of meters away. His fledgling hope is crushed when seconds later a far more insistent set of claws briefly impact with his shoulder with enough force to send him tripping almost into the dirt. Whipping about, he scowls at the self-satisfied, overgrown chicken settled comfortably on a weak looking shrub that barely shifts under its weight.</p><p>“No. <em>No. </em>Absolutely not.” He points a threatening finger at the creature, who doesn’t even <em>blink</em>, the little<em> shit</em>, and makes another, less dignified break for his plane. This time he’s almost immediately bowled over by the force of a full-grown phoenix slamming into his back, it’s gravity-defying perch on the shrub now utterly forgotten. He barely manages to keep his footing, stumbling ever closer to the safety of his plane. Small mercies.</p><p>“No no no no, no <em>thank</em> you – ” A sharp beak is tugging at his hair, “– you over-glorified <em>pigeon</em> let <em>go</em> –” and he bats ineffectively at the weight on his shoulder and back, aiming for the disgustingly smug trilling. “– oh my god who taught you manners –” They're stumbling back and forth now, the phoenix firmly clasping the thick leather of his <em>new</em> and <em>expensive</em> jacket “– it’s Italian leather you <em>savage</em> stop <em>digging your claws in</em>–”  and using its stupidly large wings to overbalance him as much as physically possible. At one point it grasps the bottom of his jacket and sends him<em> spinning</em>.</p><p>For what feels like an eternity (but was most likely barely a minute of graceless scrambling) he finally calls (read: <em>screams</em>) for a ceasefire when he feels himself lifted off the ground for a brief, terrifying moment.</p><p>“Fine fine fine okay <em>stop</em> okay. <em>Stop</em>.” Is what follows his initial screech of panic, and he’s faced with the unfairly prim and unruffled bird now settled comfortable on his automatically outstretched arm. He, on the other hand, is woefully dishevelled; red faced and puffing, hair in a state usually only seen pre-gel, and clothes thoroughly askew. “Okay. <em>Okay</em>. What do you want? What did he send you here for? Outside of ruining my day and probably the rest of my life, <em>obviously</em>.”</p><p>As he waits for the flaming turkey to conduct its business, Jack becomes acutely aware of the reaching silence from behind him. It’s clear that the entire life and persona he’s built around the Wu hunt is about to start crumbling around by his boots, and he feels something small within his chest break a little bit. He’s going to miss this. Going to miss them, if he’s honest. The closest thing he has to friends, people that treat him like he’s absolutely average and not some second coming of Merlin, or a rising star they can sink their greedy little claws into.</p><p>The bird pulls a parchment envelope from <em>somewhere</em> and gracefully extends its beak in his direction, trilling impatiently when he merely eyes it distrustfully. With a sigh and slumped shoulders, Jack grabs the envelope and proceeds to shove it into the inner pocket of his, now probably ruined, coat and tiredly turns back towards his plane, dropping his arm. As he’s dreaded, the bird merely chirps once more in warning before landing solidly on his shoulder.</p><p>The flat gaze he sends the bird does nothing to alleviate its intelligent stare, black eyes darting from his face to where he carelessly shoved the letter seconds earlier.</p><p>“Ugh, fine,” shifting to properly accommodate the weight on his shoulder, Jack tugs out the slightly crumpled letter, “Might as well do it here, not like things can get any worse.” As the phoenix starts gently sifting through the mess of red on his head, he eyes the green calligraphy of his name on the front: <em>Mr J. P. Spicer</em>.</p><p>Tearing it open it’s soon evident that he’s fucked from the first line of lanky letters, and he does his best to busy himself with the text rather than the loud discussion taking place some twenty meters away.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Dear Mstr. Spicer,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>                My apologies for contacting you so abruptly on such a delicate matter, but I’m old friend of your grandmother’s, Ceridwen Spicer. Considering your British heritage and your unparalleled academic success in the recent years, she recommended I offer you a position at our prestigious school.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>While I, unfortunately, cannot currently offer you a teaching position due to your age, your grandmother made mention that you're currently pursuing you Transfiguration Mastery, and have yet to find a Master of the subject to study under. With as many positions as I hold I would not a be a suitable candidate for mentorship, but Hogwarts’ current Transfiguration professor and my own protégé, Minerva McGonagall, would be more than up to the task.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Such an apprenticeship would, naturally, include lodgings and duties within Hogwarts itself during term-time, while the remainder of your year-minimum contract would be spent studying directly under Professor McGonagall’s tutelage. However, we would not wish complete isolation from your family during this time; your grandmother spoke of spending a year in Britain to reacquaint herself with some of the dustier family affairs.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>If you should like to further discuss this opportunity, I ask that you send a reply with Fawkes, my phoenix. I'm afraid that given the current state of high tensions in Britain I have asked Fawkes to remain by your side until you make your decision, as he can safely transport your reply.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Yours sincerely</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore,</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Order of Merlin, First class,</em>
</p><p><em>Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and</em>  <em>Wizardry,</em></p><p>
  <em>Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards,</em>
</p><p><em>Chief Warlock</em>  <em>of the Wizengamot.</em></p><p> </p><p> </p><p>His progress is halted when the phoenix, <em>Fawkes</em>, makes a triumphant noise and his goggles dislodge to hang from his nose.  With that hand that’s not holding the letter he drags them down around his throat and scowls at the bird, whose attention is already back to rooting through his hair. It seems as though this entire exchange has been based on his own stress and exasperation in the face of an immortal being that, while kinder than many he's had to deal with in recent experience, still doesn't really have to deal with the effects of its actions on mortals. Lovely.</p><p>It's the voice of one of those particular immortals that draws him from the deadpan stare directed at the phoenix on his shoulder. He tenses immediately, somewhat startling Fawkes, and they share a look – panic and curiosity – as the angry shrieks of his past and most-frequent companion in the Xiaolin-Heylin conflict, who’s already making her way over.</p><p>"Time to go." he tells the bird, and feels absolutely no remorse in the act of throwing one red immortal at another and making a break for the plane, and considers the sting of the bird’s wing clipping his cheek as he tosses it more than a fair price. He barely takes a moment to smirk at Wuya's familiar shrieks of frustration before he reaches the body of his machine and takes a running leap in order to clamber into the still-open cockpit. Reaching for the controls he distantly realises that his hands are shaking, fine tremors that make hitting the right buttons marginally more difficult.</p><p>Sighing loudly, he grabs a handle in preparation of closing the dome over the pilot's seat, and ignores, again, the loud voices outside. But as the quiet purr of the engine signals take-off, he can’t help stealing one last glance before shutting the curved glass over him, and nearly stalls the motor at the sight: Wuya, dishevelled and scowling at the hovering bird much in the same way Jack had minutes ago; behind her the monks are making their way towards the commotion of angry witch and once-again-smug bird, yelling loudly enough to match her; even further back is Chase, arms crossed and eyes trained, not on the mess of people nearest him, but rather on Jack. As their eyes meet, red to gold, the inventor feels his heart dropping through the pit that’s suddenly formed in his stomach as dread crawls its way up his throat at the cutting look of suspicion levelled his way.</p><p>Thankfully his view is quickly obscured, and whatever fate might have awaited him at the end of that gold gaze is cut off when an unfairly graceful swoop of phoenix slides through the small opening of the windshield propped open by his arm. In seconds the interior of his jet now hosts a fully-grown phoenix, carefully perched on the back of the passenger seat. He sends the distracted wizard a thoroughly unimpressed look before settling into preening slightly ruffled feathers.</p><p>"Right, okay, sure, this is totally happening, '<em>remain by your side until you've made your decision.</em>' Thanks a lot." With a snap he clamps the dome shut before making quick work of the idling engine. "You know," he tells Fawkes, speaking for the sake of distracting him from the disturbingly still forms he can still see from his peripheral, "There's a certain irony in a bird being flown somewhere on a plane." Over the sound of the jet's mechanics working to lift them off the ground, Jack can hear the bird trilling what sounds like a laugh.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>"Okay but what the fuck?" it's Raimundo that opens his mouth first, in the aftermath of Jack's messy departure. "That's never happened before, right?"</p><p>"I think we'd remember something like <em>that</em> if it'd happened before." Clay's the first to answer, hat in hands and watching the disappearing shape of Spicer's ship.</p><p>"I was hoping it was a fever dream," is Kimiko's reply, frown clearly set in place and words almost drowned by Omi's own exclamation.</p><p>"Wuya! This is a most unusual situation," the shortest monk, even for thirteen, levels an accusing finger at the dishevelled sorceress, drawing with it the attention of his companions. "You have known Jack Spicer the longest, has he ever gotten into a fight with a bird before?"</p><p>"Yeah, Wuya you spend the most time with the guy, he do this often?" calls Raimundo.</p><p>"First," she eyes the group, the thin scratches already healing on her arms and face doing very little to help her look threatening. "That wasn't just a bird. It was a phoenix: a creature so pure it's an ancient symbol of Xiaolin the world over, Seeing it cling to Jack like a trained pigeon is one of the most disturbing things I've seen since I've met that boy."</p><p>"Yeah, but why would it?" Kimiko calls over her friends' exclamations and on-the-spot theories.</p><p>"I've never seen him do anything that would warrant the attention of a creature like that." The witch frowns contemplatively, "He's a weird kid, kind of a loser, but nothing he does attracts real attention." The loud scoffs of the group are enough to have her scowl at them once more. Before she can continue, however, Chase is suddenly at her shoulder, face set in its usual blank and careless expression.</p><p>"Wuya, we're leaving."</p><p>"Chase Young!" Omi calls out once more, "Perhaps you can shed some light on what has occurred."</p><p>The immortal considers him for a moment, before tilting his head and lifting a hand and displaying the trinket-like Wu forgotten in the commotion of Jack's departure. He then promptly tosses it at Wuya before gripping her shoulder and fading away to the sounds of disgruntled and angry monks.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>It’s while he’s half-heartedly trying to contact his grandmother through the floo for the fourth time that Jack’s mind starts to truly process the consequences of what had happened barely an hour before. There’s only so much fruitlessly trying to contact his grandmother through painting, mirror and floo can do to distract him from the phoenix sitting on the living room’s decorative planter, and the letter he needs to respond to. Carefully ignoring the hitch trying to stutter its way out of his lungs, he stops kneeling in the spent ashes of the fireplace and starts moving, starts working on a list of things he’ll have to disassemble and pack away before any of this can go any further. With one hand he starts up a chain of familiar summoning and organising spells, the other dialling a number he knows perfectly well won’t be answered.</p><p>One arm absently continues to dictate the packing of the contents of his room – most of which have begun to tumbled themselves down the stairs into somewhat neat piles on the rug – while the other starts up a furious, messy response to Dumbledore’s letter on the back of some scrap paper. The tremor still rumbling its way through his arms almost spills more ink across the page than there is his scrawled writing, but it hardly registers as the empty dial tone of his grandmother’s phone echoes from where it’s squeezed between his shoulder and his ear. There’s little to no hope, he knows, of her answering, and even less of her being willing – or even <em>able</em> – to fix the horrible mess she has made in his life. But he also knows just as well that if he doesn’t do <em>something</em> to keep his hands and his mind busy then he’ll inevitable start spiralling back into an anxiety attack. Flying and contacting his grandmother had grounded him at first, but with the phone’s ringing running well over two minutes and the parchment quickly running out of space for his manic scribbling, he’s running out of options.</p><p>The crystal backing of the phone, at least, makes a satisfyingly loud crack as it hits the wall, and Jack cannot find it in himself to regret it even as the paint chips away to reveal a new hand-sized dent in the plaster. With far less control than usual, he dictates the organisation of clothes, books, projects, and his less sensitive experiments into haphazardous piles that fold and rearrange themselves restlessly, and pointedly ignores the way everything skirts around the large leather trunk that sits comfortably by the far wall. He very carefully focuses on trying to re-draft his illegible first letter, and not on the growing pile of things moving and shifting around him. He thinks instead about how many swearwords he can get possibly squeeze into his next draft, and not on the phoenix who has taken to curiously prodding at some of his more decorative metalworking projects, not on the way the sofa has begun to mark a plodding course around the room to make way for the constant tumbling of books and boots through the air and still down the stairs, not on the way the words start to blur across the page the more he tries to focus on them, not on the way one of the larger rugs is making a valiant effort to fold stray socks and jumpers as they leap and roll away from it, not on the way the air seems to be getting thinner and thinner the more he tries to gasp it down, not on how his skin is too hot and feels ready to crack and peel away while his insides are just cold cold <em>cold</em> and shaking and shivering and dark because he can’t <em>breathe</em> and he can’t stop not breathing cause his stupid useless brain is only capable of trying to muffle his hiccupping sobs, not on how it feels as though his lungs have shrunk themselves somehow, and how they can’t <em>possibly</em> manage to pull in the amount of air he needs until it feels like he’s <em>choking </em>because there’s<em> no more air left and he’s <strong>dying he's dying and</strong></em></p><p>
  <em>And</em>
</p><p>When his vision starts clearing, and his heart slows its manic beating, the muffled sound of music catches his attention and he grasps onto it desperately, digging his fingers into this soothing anchor. As his breathing slows from a rapid pant and the rush of blood in his ears quiets, it gets louder, its tune more prominent. Distantly he recognises the effects of some kind of calming charm or enchantment, but the overwhelming relief of being able to take deep, full breaths takes precedent. He is, he notes vaguely, on the ground. The tightness in his back tells him he’s been there for a while, pressed into some corner of the living room far away from the utter disarray around him.</p><p>He’s leaning, he realises, against the large leather trunk he’s been carefully ignoring the entire time he’s been home, and just the thought of it sends another shudder across his already shaking frame. But before he can even think about dropping back into the spiralling pit of panic he’d just been hooked out of, the singing starts back up again, louder and closer than before, and he finds himself relaxing once more, soothed.</p><p>Jack can’t quite place how much time he spent just sitting there, head resting on the trunk and curled in on himself as he idly watches the rug’s frantic attempts at chasing down clothes to fold. He doesn’t so much as twitch when a gentle, warm weight settles itself half on the trunk, half on his head. He just sits, and breathes, and tries to soak in as much of that gentle, wonderful crooning as he can. At some point, he reaches up to hesitantly card a hand through the unbearably soft plumage of the phoenix who’s taken to picking his beak through his own hair.</p><p>“I’m sorry I called you a pigeon,” he tells Fawkes quietly, fingers tracing through feathers he can’t see from where he’s sitting. He receives a mild prod of reprimand, but the singing doesn’t let up in the slightest, and Jack is unbearably, resentfully grateful for it.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Sitting with Fawkes has given him a moment to organise his thoughts and decide on a course of action, now that yelling at his grandmother, faking his death and moving to live out life in America as Jake Pimento, and tossing himself face-first into a pit of unending despair and stress that leaves him in a catatonic state have all failed him as viable options. So, eventually, he manages to drag himself off the floor and blindly climbs the stairs. Fawkes protests, but now that he’s had a moment to think clearly Jack is acutely aware that he’s on a time limit outside of the phoenix sitting in his living room. A quick, scalding hot shower is all he allows himself before he carefully gathers up what he’d forgotten to summon in his initial haze of panic, and makes his way back downstairs. The combined influence of his grandmother as the head of his family, and the acute attention of <em>the</em> Albus Dumbledore, means there’s no chance of wiggling out of whatever it is they’re going to want from him – not until he this seventeen at least, which is almost an entire year away.</p><p><em>No</em>, he thinks to himself and he stacks a handful of academic journals on ritual sites and the traditions of group magic on top of old sketchbooks of his early computer designs, <em>Wuya and Chase are probably going to show up for some answers, and they’ll </em>much<em> less patient about wringing them out of me.</em></p><p>When he gets back into the living room, it’s the work of a few minutes to start on a list of thing’s he’ll need to do before he can floo himself out, and he can only hope it’s doable in the time he has before <em>someone</em> comes around to ask questions. Pushing the still damp red hair out his face, he runs a critical eye of the ever-growing list he’s made as his free hand tightens on the fabric of his fresh jeans.</p><p>“We need to pack all my regular stuff,” he tells Fawkes absently, “Clothes and stuff, maybe some knickknacks?”</p><p>His only reply is a beak starting to pick its way through his wet hair.</p><p>“Okay. Right. Then we can work on the library, magical then Mundane; there’s no way of telling the kind of mess they're dragging me into so I’ll need as many resources as I can get. Hogwarts’s supposed to have a great library…” Here, at least, Fawkes gives him a bright trill, “Okay good, that’s good… but term doesn’t start until September, so I’ll <em>definitely</em> need my own stuff, and Britain does have some pretty wild censorship laws…”</p><p>It’s some minutes later, as he sits cross-legged next to Fawkes, that he finally finishes off the list of things he needs to try and sort (including but not limited to <em>4. Organise tech – what’s vital and what’s replaceable</em>, <em>5. Get it all settled into the Mundane-safe compartment</em>, and <em>7. Redraft letter to Dumbledore – less swearing, more questions about staff requirements and responsibilities</em>) when he hears a muffled banging from the basement. For the most part, he’d been trying to ignore his still active surroundings and work on making a manageable to-do list, and wonders if there’s any running projects down there he’d forgotten about keeping an eye on.</p><p>In the split second before the door leading down to the basement slams open, Jack remembers with a sudden, horrifying clarity that Wuya almost exclusively teleports into a cordoned off corner of the lab he keeps clear for the specific purpose of apparating. Across the disastrous expanse of his living room, her eyes find his, nearly luminescent in the half-light, and he and Fawkes both freeze where they sit. Fawkes lets out a chirrup of interest, likely remembering his own encounter with her, just as she opens her mouth, face twisting in an expression of outrage and indignation.</p><p>Then a cushion falls from the ceiling.</p><p>Upon closer inspection, it’s actually a sofa cushion, large and plush and pouring stuffing from a tear along its side. In tandem, all eyes slowly turn towards the sound of the soft, steady tapping of the lounge that’s tottering a wobbly loop across the ceiling, a lone matching cushion still hanging on for dear life. It’s mesmerising, watching it make its way around without a care in the world. Then Wuya lets out a yelp and the moment evaporates, as the rug that systematically tore its way through all the clothes within reach catches hold of the trailing length of her dress and does its level best to try folding it away. Jack’s torn somewhere between wanting laugh and wanting to cry, and thinks that if he lets himself do either he’ll be in worse trouble than he already is. So instead, he hefts himself out of his comfortable crying corner for hopefully the last time and goes to help her untangle herself from the rug and the curtain it’s brought with it, rail and all.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>“Just – just try and hold still–”</p><p>“Hold still? <em>Hold still?!</em> Your <em>carpet</em> is trying to <em>eat me</em>, Jack!”</p><p>“It’s not going to <em>eat</em> you, Wuya, <em>Jesus</em>. It just – stay <em>still</em> – it just thinks you're – <em>oof</em> – it thinks you're for packing.”</p><p>“What do you mean <em>for packing</em>? I'm not some winter cloak to be – to be folded away! <em>Erk</em>–”</p><p>“I <em>mean</em> it an animated <em>rug</em> that’s filled with he intent to fold and organise clothes! Doesn’t exactly have the kind of higher brain function to tell the difference between – <em>mmph</em> – between clothes and – and curtains or, uh, or a dress, or whatever.”</p><p>“An animated – where do you get off with <em>animating the inanimate when you can barely handle Shen Go-mmhphphhhhh!</em>”</p><p>“I told you to <em>hold still!</em> Oh my <em>god</em> – hfff!”</p><p>“Ugh... fuck you… and fuck… hrfff! <em>Fuck your stupid magic rug!</em>”</p><p>“Just try and stay still while I <em>fix</em> this! Why is that so diff– <em>Hnf</em>! Oh, oh ow, okay. Ouch.”</p><p>“Hah!”</p><p>“Oh, very rich coming from the <em>winter cloak!</em>”</p><p>“Shut up!”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>“So,” they’ve relocated to the kitchen, and Wuya’s commandeered the stove and whatever tea he has rattling around in his cupboards. “An animated rug, huh?” Following her disentanglement and a brief but unbearably awkward silence, she’d declared his living room <em>unusable</em> before dragging him out, scowling fiercely as Fawkes leisurely trails after them.</p><p>“Maybe not my… best decision.” He keeps his eyes firmly on his hands, tangling and untangling them as he resists reaching out for the bird perched on the barstool next to him. “I wasn’t really thinking clearly when I, uh, did it.”</p><p>Letting out a noncommittal sound, she scrutinizes his hunched form, his red eyes and his bitten-raw bottom lip, and the fine tremor still running through his entwined fingers. Face setting into a familiar blank mask, she watches him as the kettle starts its slow boil. “Well?”</p><p>“Well what?”</p><p>“Are you going to explain why you ran away with a <em>phoenix</em> of all things? Or how about why a phoenix came to you as a messenger bird in the first place? Or maybe why it looks like you’re ready to – to pack up your entire house and <em>leave</em>?”</p><p>“Because I <em>was</em>.”</p><p>“Was? Was <em>what</em>?”</p><p>“Packing. Not – not the whole house, that would be stupid, but, well… everything else, yeah.”</p><p>“You're – leaving?”</p><p>His head snaps up at how her voice catches on that last word, eyes wide as he catches something like hurt being carefully slipped behind the blank mask her face had become. “I don’t – I don’t have much of a choice, really…”</p><p>“So someone’s making you?” Wuya finds herself sinking back into the familiar embrace of anger gladly, desperate to get away from the terrible, curdling sensation of what might be <em>helplessness</em> rising from her stomach like bile. “What is it? Threats? Blackmail?”</p><p>“Wish it could be that simple, Wuya.” Her ferocity brings a small, comforted smile to his face, even as he can feel his eyes start burning again. “It’s… it’s a family thing, and there’s no way I can get myself out of it.” He wills himself to not let his voice crack as he confesses, trying desperately not to have <em>another</em> breakdown.</p><p>“You have family with <em>phoenix familiars</em>?” The horror lacing her tone snaps him out of his reverie, and the expression of pure disgust she sends his way drags a wet laugh out him.</p><p>“No – god no, can you imagine?” he watches her as she pulls the whistling kettle off the stove and starts doing – something – with the tea. When she finishes and sets out cups and pots he’s certain don’t belong in his kitchen in a careful and deliberate manner, he can’t help but send her a hopeless, sad smile. “How much do you know about modern magical communities?”</p><p>“Not much. Hasn’t been much of a priority, really.” She pours the tea with precise movements, graceful in a way he’s rarely seen from her outside of a fight. “I’ve spent most of my time back catching up with other things – medicine, history, technology. The other magical communities outside of the Xiaolin and Heylin spheres have always strayed towards repetition and petty prejudice – with absolutely <em>no</em> discipline: Chase mentioned that they’ve only gotten more dependent on focuses and conductors to harness magic. After that I didn’t really feel the need to bother with looking into it in any real depth.”</p><p>“Yeah, that about sums it up.” He swirls the green <em>something</em> in his cup dubiously, and at Wuya’s disapproving look he takes panicked, scalding sip and almost chokes. “For the last few centuries most countries – at least, the ones that weren’t stuck being, y’know, colonised – have had some kind of central governing system for the magical population, meaning there’s blanket laws that apply to everybody. Before you come of age – which is seventeen over here – you’re limited in what you can and can’t do in pretty much every part of life. I’m only just sixteen, I have another year until I’m able to do <em>anything</em> without permission from my family or the government. I can’t just – just <em>leave</em>. Even if I want to. I’m stuck like this, because I can’t make my own money or rent my own place or even cast the spells I’d need to hide myself away properly – not without the Ministry having the right to arrest me for it.”</p><p>“So, what does any of this have to do with the phoenix?”</p><p>“Do you know who Albus Dumbledore is?” Wuya promptly chokes on her tea, which, following the kind of day it’s already been, seems like a bit of an overreaction.</p><p>“You're a <em>Dumble</em>–”</p><p>“No! Of course I'm not a <em>Dumbledore</em>. What do you think this is, honestly, some kind of a – of a godawful B-Movie plot twist? <em>No</em>! Jesus.”</p><p>“Well what other <em>possible</em> connection could you have to Albus Dumbledore, <em>Leader</em> of the <em>Light</em>?” she mocks, and he can’t help but snort.</p><p>“My grandmother did her transfiguration mastery with him, under the same teacher.” He tells her dryly, “They're not friends, I don’t think, but you can’t really know someone for a literal century and not be something. Anyway, he's a headmaster of some magical boarding school in Scotland, I think.”</p><p>“You’re being sent away to a<em> boarding school</em>? That would be hilarious if it wasn’t so sad.”</p><p>“Shut it,” rolling his eyes he takes another sip of the slightly cooled tea. Now that it doesn’t taste like burning, he can detect the distinct notes of boiled grass. Delightful. “I passed my school exams ages ago. Apparently his <em>protégé</em> is willing to take me on so I can do my Mastery. It’s annoying but I need to spend a minimum of <em>exactly</em> three-hundred-and-sixty-five days under a mentor to <em>legitimize</em> me.” He groans, contemplating the risks of pushing aside all the tea things so he can push his face into the cold marble of the island counter.</p><p>“Oh, what a difficult life you must lead,” she intones blandly, before soundly downing her cup and pouring a fresh one. “If it’s so simple why make such a fuss and send out a <em>phoenix</em>?” her expression doesn’t shift away from mild interest, but an edge has made its way into her voice.</p><p>“What do you know about wizarding wars?” he knows he’s deflecting, but there’s not much else he can say when he doesn’t even know why his grandmother dragged him into all this in the first place.</p><p>“Oh, they’re quite terrible.” She sounds unbearably pleased, sharp teeth glinting into a predatory smile, “They’re usually started over petty little things like <em>gold</em> or <em>blood</em> or <em>politics</em>, yes, but if there’s one thing mages know how to do it’s cause damage.”</p><p>“Yeah, that’s the problem.” The eyebrow she raises tells him everything abut her opinion on <em>that</em> statement. “Apparently the last guy to start a civil war in Britain has resurrected himself or something, and for some reason my grandmother has <em>wisely </em>decided that she just has to stick her nose in – never mind the fact that she hasn’t been back in decades and I’ve never been in the first place.”</p><p>If anything, Wuya looks even less impressed. “So, you’re being carted off to play soldier? Never pegged you for the type…”</p><p>“I’m not. I'm <em>not</em>. I don’t want to be part of any stupid fucking <em>war</em>. I don’t want to fight.”</p><p>“You say that, but you’ve spent the last two years hunting down Sheng Gong Wu against <em>martial artists</em>.”</p><p>“I found you on <em>accident</em>!” by the stricken look on her face, he’d actually said that out loud, and before he even has a chance to try and backtrack his mouth is already moving. “It was an accident. I’m glad for it, it’s kept me busy and I – I don’t know, I enjoy it. It’s nice to have something outside of my godawful family and their ridiculous politics that’s just… mine. But it was just a stupid, lucky <em>accident</em> that I ever even got my hands on your puzzle box.” His tea is cold by now, but he fiddles with the cup all the same and tries not to look at the witch across from him. “Besides, it’s really a lot less about <em>fighting</em> than it is about competing, and none of the Monks are likely to start casting disembowelment curses any time soon…”</p><p>An uncomfortable silence falls between them once again, interrupted only by the soft sounds of Fawkes’ idle exploitation of his kitchen counters. Jack desperately tries to cast out for any change of topic that won’t make it too obvious that he’s uncomfortable thinking about how different everything feels. He thinks that maybe she’s trying to distract herself too, because eventually Wuya breaks the quiet to ask about Chase.</p><p>“Nothing.”</p><p>“Oh?”</p><p>“I don’t plan on doing anything. It’s hardly important, so I doubt it would interest him – what does it matter if I’m a m– if I’m a wizard? I can hardly use it in the Hunt because of the trace, and it’s not like literally every other person involved isn’t one flavour of magical or another.”</p><p>“Maybe… but not every other person involved ends up with a <em>phoenix</em> landing on their shoulder for a game of tug and war.” He cringes under her dry tone, staring balefully up at the guilty party still crooning away on the windowsill, apparently enthralled by the forest outside.</p><p>“Well, it’s certainly one way of making an exit. I've always told you you’re far too dramatic for your own good.” Her tone has lightened considerably, and though there’s some clear resignation in her words it’s almost like they're back to normal. And Jack can’t help but start laughing again. It’s brief, but sweet, and Wuya’s unsettled to find that it reassures her somewhat. While his giggles die down, she leans awkwardly across the counter, patting his back with the roughness of someone who’s forgotten that others are mere mortals, before eyeing the house around them – paying particular attention to the swaying sofa cushion visible through the open living room door as it treks a slow path across the ceiling.</p><p>“You’d better get this sty you call a home in order before I get back, it’s disgusting. How can you expect to pack anything when your lounge is trying to eat your rug?” As he skitters away from the kitchen with a curse to try and salvage what’s left of his living room, for a moment, Jack feels like it might not be the <em>complete</em> end of the world.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This is something I started writing the outline for back in 2016, and quarantine's encouraged me to try working on it again. It's been in the back of my mind a lot over the last couple years, so I hope I can do this complex story I've built up in my head some justice.</p><p>Thank you for reading!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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